Commuter Flight

by Ivan Berger

The day the commuters learned to fly
was hell.
The air was black with them,
Arms outstretched
for no apparent reason
but the look of flying.
Briefcases strapped to backs,
flying directly to their floors to find
the windows wouldn’t open.

Soon, they coated the skyscrapers
like bees on a beekeeper,
pounding the glass vainly
for admittance; then
clustering on rooftops,
jostling to go one by one
through little doors
down many, many stairs
to their day’s work.

Workers at lunch
sat amiably on window sills
dropping crumbs and ketchup
on the flyers-by below.
The lovesick no longer languished
on curbs beneath
their would-bes’ windows;
shades went down--
shade sales went up.

On Wednesdays, the ladies
flew in for their matinees,
hats tightly pinned in place,
skirts firmly tucked
between their legs
(the smart ones
added snaps),
nearly colliding
with doctors outbound
for their golf.

Hazards remained:
pigeons in the face,
toes stubbed
on gargoyles.
Few flew in rain, of course,
and none in turbulence;
on good days,
transit languished.

The mayor of San Francisco
did celebratory flights
under both major bridges.
The mayor of New York,
seeing nobody much
made money from it,
tried to ban it:
“This cannot be,” he said.
And was ignored.

Then scientists said
“This cannot be”
and proved it.
Suddenly,
everyone was grounded.

The era of flight was survived
only by folk memories
and a discreet memorial
atop 40 Wall,
where two stockbrokers
once collided.